Cuts Like
by Northlight
Summary: And it seemed like such a good idea at the time. . . [PostCasserole, Syl PoV]


Cuts Like (1/1)

_ Title: Cuts Like (1/1)  
Summary: And it seemed like such a good idea at the time. . .  
Characters: Syl. Minor Zack, Max, Brin, Tinga, Krit.  
Rating: R for lots of language.  
Spoilers: And Jesus Brought a Casserole  
Disclaimer: Cameron and Eglee  
Date: May 23, 2001._

I cut myself this morning. Slicing an' dicing cucumber in the kitchen, a solid thunk of the knife as it cut through the cucumber and hit the cutting board. Even, rhythmic--thunk, thunk, thunk, and I was listening to swish and wet slice and thunk so damn hard that I didn't even notice. No big deal, really--'cept I don't do things like that. Clumsy, careless, _stupid_ chopping at my own goddamed finger. There's enough people out there who want a piece of this pretty hide without tearing a chunk out myself, you know. Precision, that's what it's all about. Had that drilled into my head as far back as I can remember--so far back that it's beyond memory. Gotta be careful and precise and so fucking perfect that I'd never even nicked myself shaving and suddenly there's blood staining at moist slices and there's a ton of them and fuck, how long have I been chopping at the damned cucumber? 

Phoenix had a fit. She's my roommate--tall and slim with red hair and green cat's eyes and she's pretty enough to be one of us. She doesn't like blood, though and I've had blood smeared over my skin more often than she's had a facial, and being one of us. . . we've seen more of human insides than the blood, you know. But she's pretty, and the guys look at her more than they do me and I was made to be perfect. Guess they don't realize that, though. Don't much mind that. Truth is, I hate when people tell me I'm beautiful. Nothing I did about that, see? I'll convey your compliments to the scientists who cooked me up, though. Sure they'll be delighted to hear that. . . oh, wait, forget that, 'cause no way in hell am I ever getting close enough to those butchers-- 

Christ, I'm doing it again. Focus, soldier! Stop your goddamed wool-gathering and _focus_! And I can't think straight anymore. Phoenix got me some bandages and handed 'em over to me, not about to get up close and personal with my blood. I'm trying to patch myself back up, my hands shaking so bad that I can't do shit all. I went back, back to Manticore, and I left a sliver--no, fuck that--a huge bloody chunk of myself back in that hellhole. And I came back here when it was all done, smiled at the kids who live in the apartment next to ours on the way up, nodded at Phoenix and listened to her chew me out about leaving without warning her. 

I'm tired of running, I'd said. Those words always sound as a whine, stupid and unknowing in my head and what was I thinking then? Well, yeah, gee, why don't we take on Manticore? Let's get ourselves killed, plenty of time to rest then, right? Taking out the DNA labs doesn't mean anything. We'll never be normal. We'll never be forgotten by our government, by all those dozens of others that want to poke through our brains and bodies and create themselves their very own super-soldiers. Running becomes a habit after a while. Fear is so deeply ingrained in me that I don't need something real to run from. I'm never going to stop moving, never going to stop looking over my shoulder. 

We went back to make them pay for what happened to Tinga. She's still dead. Brin is still in Manticore. Max is captured. Zack is dead. Yay, us. Way to go! We've sure shown _them_, haven't we? Wasn't too hard hacking into Manticore's system--hey, they wanted me to be perfect, I'm more than just a pretty face and strength enough to snap a man's neck. Found out what went down after Krit and I hightailed it. Spent the rest of that evening hugging the toilet. Not very soldierly, right? Got Lydecker in his regular seat in the back of my brain, clucking his tongue as I heaved and sobbed and made a spectacle out of myself. 

Thunk, thunk, thunk and I'm thinking of blood and ribs cracked apart and fluttering hearts and I can't shake the image. I could have run a whole lot longer--I was made for it. This. . . this I don't know what to do with. I've got this section of my mind, and there's all this darkness there, all the loss and pain and it's creeping out further and further, taking over everything else. I don't want to forget. I don't want to get over it. I want my family back together, whole and healthy and free. Soldiers die, all the time. But Zack, Tinga, Max, Brin--they aren't soldiers. They're my _family_. We were supposed to have more--a life, freedom, friends, the whole package. We left Manticore because we were more than soldiers. If we'd wanted to die soldiers, we wouldn't have left. 

Krit and I talked afterwards. We were calm and rational and fucking sensible tacticians. What to do now? What if Manticore isn't down and out permanently? How do we contact the others? No sentimental folly for us, right? Crying won't do anything. It's just something you learn to avoid because crying is a weakness and the one thing you wanted to avoid at Manticore was being seen as weak. See, we aren't supposed to care. Whatever it is, just shrug it off. Mission and objective and Manticore, that's it, that's all we're meant to care about, not friends and family and all the things that were taken away from us. I hugged him anyway. I wrapped my arms around him, hugged Krit as tightly as I could. And I came back here, like this means anything at all. Like nothing changed. Like I could keep on pretending. 

I cut myself this morning. No big deal. I barely felt a thing. 

I have other things on my mind, you know. 

~end~ 


End file.
